


The Sign of Four Is Just the Sign of One Thing

by Illusionist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Asexuality, Asexuality Kink, Bisexuality, Cocaine, Domestic, Drama, Drug Use, Drugged John, F/M, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, Plot Twists, Psychological Drama, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:23:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illusionist/pseuds/Illusionist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 'a Scandal in Belgravia'. After the whole ordeal with 'the Woman', things have become a bit more complicated. Sherlock's drug habits are getting out of control, and John is faced with questions to which he has no answers. Mary Morstan's appearance makes things simple . . . for a short while, and then things get so complicated that even Sherlock couldn't have anticipated them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All the Best and Brightest Creatures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/582059) by [wordstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstrings/pseuds/wordstrings). 



> A/N: I was trying to have a psychoanalytical criticism of "The Sign of Four' when this story popped into my head, and I just HAD TO write it. Warning for lots of plot twists, angst and kinky sexual themes in the future chapters.
> 
> All the grammatical and spelling mistakes are mine, unfortunately. If you're interested in being a beta, please send me a message, and I'll owe you forever. 8)
> 
> Any sort of feedback and criticism is appreciated. Happy reading.

**The Sign of Four Is Just the Sign of One Thing**

**A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction**

_Chapter One_

John put all the bags down on kitchen floor with a huff and chose to ignore all the test tubes on the kitchen table and the smell of acid that was coming from God-only-knew where. At this point in his shared life with Sherlock Holmes, there was no point in fussing about the state of the house. He had learned to live with it, and to be perfectly honest, Sherlock _was_ trying to tidy things up, that is, only for five minutes before he got bored and decided to find out about the right temperature to blow up John's cans of beer instead.

_It's the effort that counts, and there haven't been many body parts lying around lately. That's a good sign . . . or a very bad one._

He could hear Mrs. Hudson from downstairs, softly singing an old tune, and let himself smile a bit. After the Woman's case and his little unpleasant talk with Mycroft about Sherlock, and subsequently having to lie to Sherlock about one of the rare things that seemed to emotionally matter to the analytical prick, it was the first day John felt like he could be at ease again, and going shopping sounded like a fantastic start for a relatively normal day at Baker street. He put the milk cartons in the fridge, coffee and tea in the cupboard and stretched a bit before walking to the living room. The florescent light was flickering on and off. He had to do something about that later.

He knew Sherlock was at home even before seeing him on the sofa. Not because of his leather shoes at the doorway or his scarf hanging on the crown hook. Not because of the open laptop – John's laptop, mind you. God forbid the detective ever used his - on the messy table in the sitting room or the half empty cup of tea next to it. No, that kind of observation was Sherlock's business, Sherlock's way of seeing the world. John knew Sherlock was home because the home felt vibrant and alive whenever he was in it. There was no scientific way of explaining it. It was something that happened after knowing someone well for years – granted, they'd been living together for almost a year, but the days didn't count the standard way when Sherlock was involved. _Nothing_ was normal when Sherlock was involved - and John supposed it was a good thing, – the word good had to be used with caution when it came to the mad detective – a good thing that there were things he could rely on in their, otherwise, quite unpredictable way of living.

Sherlock sitting languidly on the sofa and not uttering a word was something he was fairly used to, and even appreciated at times, well, most of the times, but Sherlock sitting erect with a hypodermic syringe in his right hand and aiming at his left forearm which, john hated to admit, was decorated with innumerable puncture marks was something he was not used to at all. In fact, even though he was perfectly aware of the idiot's drug use, he had been lucky enough not to witness it happen right in front of his eyes.

_My luck just ran out. Was about time._

 If Sherlock noticed his presence - of course he did; that bastard always noticed everything. Always – he didn't do anything about it. John watched with bathed breath and hands tightly gripping the headrest of the armchair in front of him as the needle slipped in. Sherlock bit his lower lip for a moment or two, pushed the piston with great precision – the kind of precision he dedicated to everything he liked or cared for - swallowed, took the needle out in an agonizingly slow motion, fisted those long, pale fingers and opened them, threw the needle on the coffee table – right next to the fruit basket - sank back on the leather sofa, stretched his long legs and sighed in pleasure.

John stood motionless where he was; not knowing what to do, say or even think. It was almost as if he had just witnessed a traumatic event he would never be able to forget. It certainly felt like one.

It took ages, or maybe just a few seconds, for Sherlock to open his eyes and glance at him. It was the first time he was seeing Sherlock with dazed eyes that were so out of focus, and he just didn't know what to do. So he kept standing still, like a soldier at attention.

"Ah, John." Sherlock greeted him with the sleeve of his dressing gown still rolled up, handing lying limply on his side. His voice was a bit slurred, not enough for strangers to take notice of, but John had heard the voice enough times, had heard him ramble, babble, mock, jeer, hiss, huff, laugh and scream, to know the difference, and he stepped back, only noticing now that he'd been gripping the bloody armchair the whole time, his knuckles white, fingertips tingling.

John didn't trust himself to open his mouth, lest he scream and cry out the stupidest words. His fingers were itching. He felt like grabbing some vase, plate or glass, anything breakable really, and smash them to tiny, little pieces, or even grab that long, slender neck and squeeze it, and keep squeezing it until there was no air left for Sherlock to breathe. Perhaps the worst thing in this whole ordeal was that John didn't know why the hell he was having such a strong reaction, as though it was him who had taken the bloody cocaine, the god-damn seven percent solution that the great Sherlock Holmes was so fond of.

"Right," John muttered as he took one step back, and another, took a deep breath as if he'd run for miles and miles, then turned around and left the flat as fast as his shaking legs could muster.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was almost around noon when John finally stopped walking aimlessly around the park and sat on a bench covered with snow. It was an unpleasant feeling, but John was too tired to care. He had certainly endured much worse in Afghanistan. Wet jeans were the least of his problems at the moment anyway.

The truth was that John H. Watson wasn't an introspective man; he wasn't even a thinking man. As a doctor, it had never been a good idea to analyze all the sickness and death that came out of nowhere and took lives for no reason. That was really when he'd learnt that _why_ wasn't the big question; _how_ was. As a soldier, his ideology was further reinforced. One hour of deep thinking, and john wasn't sure he'd been able to stay on that hot land, watch bombs go off, kids die, women die, soldiers die and keep doing what he was doing. When living with Sherlock, any sort of analysis was downright a stupid idea. Half the times, Sherlock did things for no apparent reasons – or at least reasons nobody else could make sense of – the other half the reasons were so blatantly inhuman that it was best to leave them untouched.

And then there were rare instances like Irene Adler's case that made John wonder about the eccentric man without really wanting to do so. Cases like this made him wonder what Sherlock was really made of. He _had_ emotions. John was absolutely certain of it, and in cases like this, John wondered if Sherlock maybe had _too_ muchemotion, responded to everything _too_ strongly, and this detached façade was his way of dealing with life, and drugs were helping him ease the pain.

John was no psychologist though, and like all other things concerning Sherlock, there was no use in coming to definite conclusions, and it wasn't the reason why John had been going round the park all day anyway, but then again, when it came to Sherlock, everything mingled together; life and work, thought and emotion, living and dreaming. It really was no surprise then that he'd started the walk by being furious at Sherlock, then being concerned over the possibility of drug addiction and the idiot's mental health, then furious at Mycroft for not doing anything about the whole thing, then livid at Irene Adler for getting herself killed just when Sherlock was showing tiny signs of emotional growth.

_God damn that woman. All thoughts end to her these days._

His annoyance toward Irene Adler had little to do with the fact that she had hurt Sherlock by pretending to be dead, flirting _at_ him, taking advantage of his intelligence and, in a very bizarre way, innocence. Not that these weren't contributing factors, but John's real source of irritation was her words to _him_. At first John thought she wanted to rile him up – telling things like _'somebody loves you or you are a couple or look at us both_ ' - but then, John might have taken a look at Sherlock's phone – no, he wasn't proud of what he'd done. He really shouldn't have been ashamed, considering Sherlock's thoughts on privacy, but he was trying to be the good man here, damn it! And, anyway, he had expected the great Sherlock Holmes' phone to have a code, and if by some miracle he managed to open it, he really had expected for all the messages to be deleted, but surprise, surprise. There was no code and the messages were all there. All the bloody 59 of them. It seemed Irene Adler wasn't playing games and making fun of John after all. Worse, she really did believe that John was in love with Sherlock. ' _I think he likes you more than I do. You do know that he suits you?'_

John scoffed loudly and leaned back on the bench, not paying attention to the two young girls who turned around to see who had made the unholy noise.

_The dominatrix playing the match maker. How much more ridiculous can it get?_

 The most puzzling thing was why John found this to be bothering him so much. She wasn't the first to make such assumptions. John only had to add her to the list consisting of Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Donavan, Anderson, Angelo and all the waiters working for Angelo, Harry, Mike Stamford, half of Sherlock's clients and even bloody Jim Moriarty. _'How does it feel to have Sherlock fucking Holmes in love with you?'_ He'd asked right before fastening the bombs to him.

_Not a very good time to think about Moriarty._

John rested his elbows on his knees and shook the snow out of his hair with his frozen fingers. In his haste to get out of the house, he'd forgotten about his gloves. _Bloody Sherlock._ Just one syringe of that blasted drug, and here he was and thinking about, well, he didn't even know what exactly it was that he was thinking about: Himself, Sherlock, their . . . whatever it was that they had, life, philosophy, morality, etc, etc. John had never been in such position in his thirty odd years of living. His life had always been pretty straight forward, no pun intended. Questions like this had never come up. Harry was gay, and she was quite dramatic about it, but John had never minded. Not her string of lovers, not her ex-wife, whom he incidentally thought to find quite lovely. John Watson was a man who took life as it came and didn't turn back. Yet these recent incidents were really putting him off.

_Why did I come here in the first place? Oh, yes._

_The seven percent solution._

There was no point in further thought. Irene Adler was gone. Sherlock was not going to give up on his precious cocaine, despite the hints John had made at the long time side effects on his more precious mind and analytical reasoning, and life at 221B was going to go its normal way, as normal as things could be considering Sherlock. He had just been caught off-guard. That was all. Everything was fine.

John stood up, took a deep breath, shook the snow off his jeans and walked back to Baker Street.

_Enough of useless thinking. Back to the real life._

* * *

 

 

Back in the flat, Sherlock was already showing signs of withdrawal. John could easily tell by Sherlock pacing back and forth in the flat frantically and biting his nails without mercy. The laptop was open and from what John could see, Sherlock had been checking John's blog, probably looking for an interesting case with no success. The Times and the Daily Express were lying scattered on the floor; some old books were open under the sofa. It even seemed Sherlock had given Poirot and Mrs. Marple a go, judging by the DVDs next to the dusty books.

_Yes, definitely in withdrawal._

Sherlock turned around with a theatrical swirl of his red dressing gown and pointed an accusing – and shaking – finger at him.

"Where have you been _all_ morning? I'm bored. _Bored!_ "

Sherlock definitely knew where he'd been _all_ morning. He'd probably had it figured out by the dust on   his shoes or the melted snow on his shoulders or something equally ridiculous. So the question was aimed at aggravating him. It was almost funny how John was used to this side of Sherlock, which happened more often than he cared to admit. So, he did what he always did in situations like this: answered Sherlock patiently. (It was ironical and a little bit funny how it felt like he was dealing with a child sometimes.)

"Went for a walk."

Sherlock scoffed and sat down on the armchair, throwing the union Jack pillow on the other side of the room as he drummed his fingers on the arm rest in an arrhythmic pattern.

"Sherlock," John said carefully as he walked towards the pale, shivering man. It was almost like approaching a wounded wild animal. One wrong move and John could have his head cut off. Thankfully, he was quite experienced at this. If he ever stopped working with Sherlock, he was pretty sure he could find job at a circus.

"Would you like a –" He was cut off by one short ringing of the bell and watched as Sherlock jumped out of his seat, eyes already glued to the door as if he waiting for Santa Claus.

"A case, John. A case!"

 John sighed in relief and sagged down on the armchair. If Sherlock noticed the sigh, he didn't say anything about it, probably too busy trying to figure out the case by the sound of the footsteps or something already. Whoever was coming up to their flat was an angel.

The door opened with a creak – yes, it definitely needed oiling up – and a blonde hair popped in.

_An angel indeed._

John had stood up without realizing it and was staring - yes, openly staring - at the pretty woman with the shy smile upon her lips.

"The lady downstairs told me to come up." She said as she carefully stepped inside. Since Sherlock was not going to say a word, John hurriedly went to the corner of the room, dragged the wooden chair to the middle, and turned to the lady with, what he hoped was a nice smile on his lips. "Yes, yes, this is Sherlock Holmes and I'm -"

"Doctor Watson. I recognized you from your blog."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, most probably _compliment_ her on her sharp observing skills, but John beat him to it. "Yes, of course, please have a seat." The young lady nodded her thanks and sat on the chair, putting her bag next to the leg of the chair.

_Sherlock, please behave. Please._

"Well?" Sherlock asked as he clasped his hands behind his back and looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"I'm sure you'll find this case interesting." She said with a smile, apparently aware of Sherlock's obsession with all things _interesting._

"That remains to be seen." Sherlock replied in his most monotonous tone, expression neutral, but he was rubbing his hands together, and John knew what _that_ meant.

"My father  . . ."

John was a bit embarrassed to find out that he really wasn't listening to what she was saying. He had no doubt Sherlock would later mock him for not remembering some silly detail, but he really couldn't help but to stare at her.

_She's really pretty._

She was dressed nicely in simple clothes, her blonde hair resting on her petite shoulders; her eyes blue and full of promises of sympathy and compassion. She seemed like a little angel. John could tell by the way she was avoiding looking at the skull on the mantelpiece or the bloody hand on the desk, as though the mere sight of them would give her a fright, and he couldn't help but love her a bit for it. His life had become too much pumped with adrenaline these days.

 John blamed all this on Sherlock. If he hadn't, for the lack of a better word, cockblocked him all the time, he wouldn't be sitting here, obsessing over some young woman he barely knew. In his defense, the woman, who had just introduced herself as Mary Morstan – _Mary, what a beautiful name_ – turned her head to give him a disarming smile every now and then, and all John could do was to smile back. To all this, Sherlock seemed entirely oblivious, only obsessing over the missing father, and the jewelry sent by the anonymous person.

_Great, we're both getting something out of this . . . which doesn't often happen._

The case was, indeed, quite interesting. Sherlock was already making 'hmm' sounds and narrowing his eyes in concentration. John could tell it wasn't easy for Mary to talk about Captain Morstan who'd been missing for ten years, and was torn between comforting her and staying silent for the fear of his and Mary's life. Interrupting Sherlock's thoughts was a dreadful and dangerous business.

"Would you like to see the jewelry?" She asked. Sherlock wordlessly stretched his hands, took the necklace and ring from her and gave darting glances to both.

"Can I keep these for now?"

"Yes,"

"Excellent." Sherlock said as he stood up and walked to the kitchen table. "Come back here at six. We have places to go" John and Mary heard him say and looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

"That's my cue to live then." She said but didn't look offended at all.

John quickly stood up. "Would you like a cuppa?"

"Very kind of you, doctor –"

"Call me John."

"Right, John. I'd like to, but I must get going."  She said as she walked to the door, John following her and saying goodbye as she descended the stairs. Once back in the flat, he went to the window and watched her cross the street and disappear in the corner.

"She was really nice." He didn't really expect Sherlock to reply to that, and Sherlock didn't; too busy staring at the jewelry and looking things up on the internet.

John sat on the armchair and turned on the reading lamp without knowing why. Sherlock already looked better, the tremor gone from his fingers, The color back on his face, the gleam back in his eyes, and perhaps the best part of the case was that he felt like he was already a little bit in love. The day was already looking up.

The bottles of cocaine lay in the corner of the bookcase, forgotten.

 

**To Be Continued . . .**

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**The Sign of Four Is Just the Sign of One Thing**

**A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction**

_Chapter two_

Somewhere in the middle of the case, a dead body turned up in Pondicherry Lodge, and they had no choice but to phone Lestrade. Sherlock acted all impatient and irritated, but John knew he was secretly pleased to have the chance to show off his genius again and rub it in Donovan and Anderson's faces.

And Sherlock did just that. John stood next to Mary in the corner of the room, careful not to touch anything –as Sherlock had instructed - and they, along with Lestrade and the whole forensics team, watched as Sherlock leaped here and there with those long legs of his, pointed to parts of the body and the room that nobody had noticed before and made the craziest deductions that would just sound delirious to a stranger, but everybody knew Sherlock enough not to ask questions or Sherlock would dish out the nastiest insults to them. He got quite vicious when he was concentrating on a case, what little manner he usually reserved in the face of _commoners_ all forgotten. Lestrade wrote everything down on that small notebook of his, and Anderson did not cease to look daggers at him even for one second; it probably had something to do with what Sherlock had told him when he saw him appear alongside Lestrade. John hadn't heard the remark – most probably a colorful insult – and he was more than happy to stay ignorant about it.

John glanced at Mary from the corner of his eyes. She looked quite awestruck, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes and her mouth slightly open. It was an expression he was quite used to seeing when it came to the clients. Hell, he himself sometimes looked just like that at the crime scenes, but seeing Mary like that made him feel some extra emotions he hadn't experienced before; a little bit of pride and joy mixed with a little bit of . . . jealousy?

_Jealous of Sherlock Holmes? John Watson, get your act together._

Sherlock was still speaking. John rarely followed Sherlock's path of reasoning these days. It was much easier, and really, much more productive, to wait for Sherlock to tell the solution at the end, and they'd deal with it then. Sherlock explained things much better after he came down from his highs anyway, and John was a patient man, if the events of the morning were anything to go by.

"Jonathan Small." Sherlock finally shouted out in delight.

_And there it is._

"John, come with me." The detective said, well, more like ordered, as he ran out of the dark room, completely disregarding Lestrade's pleas to explain things a bit more. John looked at Lestrade who nodded his head in resignation and then looked at Mary with an apologetic expression on his face.

"Don't worry about me." She was clearly shaken but still managed to give him a small smile.

"I'll ask one of the guys to drop Miss Morstan home. It's almost midnight." Lestrade reassured him, and John nodded his thanks.

"John!" Sherlock's shout reverberated through the whole building.

"Right." John muttered as he followed Sherlock out the front door. "Where are we going?" But Sherlock was already on the other side of the street, hailing a taxi.

"Sherlock, wait." John ran to him. At these times, getting an answer out of him was practically impossible. He grabbed a bony shoulder before the consulting detective could get in the car and squeezed hard.

" _Where_ are we going?"

Sherlock stood still for one second and took a deep breath before turning to John. His pupils were as dilated as they had been earlier in the morning when he was high on cocaine. It seemed like this kind of thrill brought him a level of pleasure that no other drug on earth would ever be able to, and it felt almost as good for John to witness it without having to worry about overdose or death.

 The mad detective closed his eyes, took an impatient breath, opened them, leaned down so they were at the same height, and, in that urgent, impatient frustrated and irritated tone that only he could manage, said:

"The boat!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

So it turned out 'the boat' wasn't a metaphor or a code name or anything of that sort. They really were chasing after a boat and after some help from the Baker Street irregulars and some fantastic – and disturbing – acting from Sherlock to obtain some information from a poor, old woman who turned out to be the boat owner's wife, they ended up on a rented engine boat, looking for 'Aura'.

It was close to sunrise; the sky was lightening up, making it easier for them to look for the boat which apparently was red and black in color. Despite the exhausting day and night they had just passed, John didn't feel tired. If anything, he felt energetic and alive. He didn't need to look at Sherlock to know he felt the same way, but he did anyway. Sherlock was standing on the deck, fingers gripping the cold railings as he stared at the distance, searching for Aura with such intensity that only he could muster. John went to him, careful not to slip on the wet floor or fall into the freezing river –the motorboat was going awfully fast, water splashing everywhere as it cut through the river. The blasted cold weather was not making things any easier.

"How did you figure out it was Jonathan Small?"

"The artificial leg," Sherlock said without looking at him, it wasn't easy to hear him through theroar of the engine.

"He has an artificial leg?!" John shouted back.

"Obviously. The mud on the steps, John. The footsteps on the left were considerably ligheter than the ones on the right."

_Brilliant; just brilliant._

But John knew better than to voice his thoughts out loud. Sherlock's ego was big enough already. A few more compliments and he'd probably explode.

John smiled at the mental image and turned his head to right to hide it from Sherlock.

"White flag, red and black in color. Sherlock, Sherlock! It's the Aura!" John gripped Sherlock's arm and pointed to the far end of the river.

"Yes, yes!" Sherlock turned his head to the skipper. "If we miss her, I'll kill you with my bare hands." Sherlock looked serious enough to mean it, and the poor man didn't need to be told twice before he sped up.

"They might be armed." Sherlock told him without taking his eyes of the boat ahead of them.

"I know." John said, hands already at his belt, taking his gun out. His heart was beating too fast in his chest, but he was too used to it to care. If anything, he kind of liked it.

"She's going way too fast. I don't think we'll catch her." The bearded man told them over the roar of the engine.

"We must!" Sherlock screamed and turned for a millisecond to glare at the man. "I'll catch him if it's the last thing I'll do."

As luck would have it, a boat turned up right in front of Aura. Because of the twilight, Aura had missed it and she had to put the helm down to avoid a collision.

"Jump when I tell you." Sherlock shouted next to him.

"Right after you." John gripped the gun harder in his hand.

The engineer turned the search lights upon her, and they could see three people on the boat, one of them clearly Small. John couldn't see any guns, but there was no point in making unnecessary risks. They _were_ murderers after all.

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him closer to him to whisper something in his ear. "If the man with the baseball hat raised his hands, don't hesitate to shoot him." John didn't know the reason but trusted Sherlock enough to obey without a question, so he only nodded his head in understanding.

Aura was making straight for the bank, and they were very close, almost one yard away. A collision seemed inevitable, and John braced himself for the crash. The sun was out and there was no snow falling, which counted as a small mercy. The clash did happen, almost in slow motion – or at least that was how John felt – Sherlock shouted out his name, and John didn't hesitate to jump.

Aura's floor was slippery with melted snow, and it was an extremely difficult task to keep his balance, but he managed after a few small steps. He and Sherlock looked around the deck, but the three men were nowhere to be found.

"Where the hell are they?" John hissed at Sherlock as he tried to catch his breath. Sherlock gestured at him to crouch down and John did just that. It was silent for a few seconds before John saw a small movement on Sherlock's left. He saw a glimpse of a baseball hat and it was enough warning for him to shout out, and he and Sherlock both hurled down. Something whizzed past John's left ear –something that sounded like a dart- and he threw himself to the right; his foot slipped, he lost his balance, his frozen hands missed the wet railings, and he fell head first down into the Thames.

 The height wasn't too much, two meters at most, but the water – bleeding Christ – John had never experienced anything as painful as that, and he'd been shot before. In one short second all his nerves went on fire. It was almost as if his skin was burned, and he took some glorious gulps of water before he managed to will his body – which seemed to be in shock- to move and swim upwards. It wasn't an easy task. In fact, it was one of the most difficult things he had done in his lifetime. The river felt heavy all around him, and the water in his shoes wasn't helping things at all. John managed to keep his head out of the water long enough to intake some necessary oxygen and shout out Sherlock's name. John was a decent swimmer, but he had never experienced freezing water in January. His body was not accustomed to such bitter cold and was disobeying his mind's commands.

"Sherlock!" John wasn't sure if Sherlock was hearing him. He could see flurries of movements on the Aura. There was probably some serious fighting going on over there. It took a few more gulps of water before John managed to spot the ladder on the side of the boat and hear Sherlock screaming his name and gesturing at him to reach it with wild, flailing hands. It wasn't easy. His whole body felt heavy and numb. All he could manage was to grip the first step with slippery fingers. Apparently that was enough for Sherlock. He reached down and grabbed John's wet coat with his hands – one of the perks of being tall - and hurled John upward. John tried to help, but at this point there wasn't much he could do except to grasp Sherlock's elbow and wait to be lifted up.

They both fell on the deck with a loud thump, with Sherlock's body weight over his back. John could hear heavy breathing, but wasn't sure it was his or Sherlock's. It wasn't easy to hear anything beyond the mad chattering of his teeth. He raised his head a bit, seeing two men knocked out and Jonathan Small sitting at the corner with hands above his head; their bearded skipper pointing a shaking gun at him. From the looks of it, their skipper wasn't quite familiar with guns. Then again, it didn't seem Small was either. So it all worked out just fine.

Sherlock sat with a grunt and turned John around. He felt like a heavy lump of dough, his hand resting uselessly on his sides.

"You good?" Sherlock asked, but he was smiling. John felt like he was about to die, teeth chattering, body not moving, all the nerves in his body on fire but couldn't help but to giggle.

"Ye . . .yeah. Ju . . . just free . . zing."

Sherlock stood up, grabbed his arms to make him stand up, and somehow they managed to get themselves on the shore with a few unsynchronized steps.

"You _are_ freezing." Sherlock observed – not one of his best ones - as he helped him out of his coat.

"You're going to get pneumonia and die." Sherlock took off his long coat and draped it on his shoulders. John took the edges and brought it closer to himself, bending his head down so as to curl up in the pleasant warmth. Next Sherlock took off his scarf and wrapped it around John's neck with a painful knot, as if dealing with a naughty child. John couldn't help but to giggle again. This whole thing was crazy.

They could hear sirens approaching. Sherlock had called Lestrade then.

_Brilliant, brilliant Sherlock._

There was an ambulance, too, and John watched with amusement as Sherlock screamed for blankets, snatched the red, ugly things from the poor paramedic and came to him, dropping them over his head.

"Sh . . . Sherlock!" They were heavy, and it took John a minute or two to get his fingers to cooperate to wrap the blankets around himself.

John watched shivering as the police carried out the knocked out bodies and Jonathan Small into the car. Mission accomplished then.

Lestrade came to him. "You okay there, Sherlock?" There was a smile on his face. If he was trying to be funny by referring to the scarf and the coat, it wasn't working.

"F . . .fine."

"We chased a motorboat all night. Almost got killed by poisonous darts. John nearly drowned." Sherlock explained to Lestrade as he beckoned John to him. "Of course we're fine."

"Jesus." Lestrade muttered under his breath, but John had a nagging feeling he wasn't really surprised.

Getting up and moving wasn't exactly easy, especially with all the extra weight. With the help of Sherlock, he managed to slump down in the corner of the ambulance with a heavy sigh and much grunting.

"Let's get you home, John. Tea will make you better."

" You're going to . . .  make me tea?" John asked incredulously, his stuttering subdued a little.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to make some for both of us."

John smiled.

"This was . . . good." John said and watched the paramedics as they asked Sherlock to get off the ambulance so they could close the doors, got forbid the great Mr. Holmes ever had a ride on an ambulance. What would the world think?!

Sherlock hopped down and shivered a bit. It was probably pretty cold without his coat on. He sniffed – a weird habit of his - and looked at John, and before they could close the doors, John watched as Sherlock gave him one of his rare, brilliant smiles and said, "yes, it was."

 

**To Be Continued . . .**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**The Sign of Four Is Just the Sign of One Thing**

**A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction**

_Chapter Three_

John had to take a few deep breaths before he could open the door to their flat. He supposed he had become too old for skipping every other step of their old, creaking stairs, which was bad news, considering that living with Sherlock meant he had to be in great physical shape or he'd die of a heart attack, either out of physical exertion or anger. The latter was more likely.

When John opened the door, he was half expecting to find a ticking bomb on their coffee table, some poisonous chemicals floating in the air, or at least CIA , FBI or MI6 to be sitting on their sofa with their guns pointing at somebody, but no, nothing of that sort. Sherlock was standing by the window, playing a soothing tune on his violin. John checked the kitchen too, which was an absolute mess – then again, it was its normal state – and Sherlock's bedroom, but all were empty of any sort of danger.

John took a few deep breaths – this time to cool down the rage – as he walked to the sitting room. He coughed deliberately, but Sherlock paid him no heeds, still absorbed, or at least pretending to be, in his music.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't stop playing, but he did turn his head around to glance at John.

"John," was all he said before he turned back to the window, back to his bizarre world. John balled his hands into fists for a few seconds and counted to ten before going to Sherlock; otherwise he'd probably break all those pearly white teeth. He had every intention of making Sherlock listen to him, even if it meant throwing that god-damn violin out the window.

"You called me, told me there was an emergency. Never mind the words you said; you _called_. You _never_ call. So you better be in imminent danger or so help me God," John didn't finish his sentence. Threatening Sherlock was never a good idea. Sherlock always took it as a personal challenge to do worse than before, and he succeeded every single time.

Sherlock stopped playing and after a few painful seconds, set his violin down on the desk, turned around and faced John with those calculating eye.

"I did call." He said and looked down at John, as if nothing had happened.

" _Why_?"

"Why are you so angry?"

"Why am I so – " John stopped mid-question, turned his back to Sherlock, paced back and forth a few times before facing Sherlock again with a pointing finger aimed at Sherlock's chest. " I was in the middle of a date. A very good one I might add. I was having a lovely dinner and a lovely time and then you _call_ and ask me to come home for an _emergency_. I come home and everything's just fine. You better have an at least, half –adequate explanation or the emergency might just happen."

_I just threatened him. Lord help me._

Sherlock flopped down on the sofa like they were having the most mundane conversation of all time. "Oh, I've done much worse. Why are you so angry _this_ time?"

"That's not the point." John knew Sherlock was playing a mind game, and he refused to take the bait. Not this time

"That's exactly the point. Surely there are hundreds of girls out there like Mary Morstan? plain, gullible, boring, _good._ "

John hadn't told him about Mary. So Sherlock Holmes was paying attention to his personal life after all, which was the last thing he needed.

"So you want to sabotage my dates. Is that it?"

"I'm not the one doing the sabotaging. You came here all on your own."

"I thought you were on fire! You certainly sounded liked it; 'John please come, _please._ ' What do you want this time? Tea? Milk? The thumbs in the fridge? _Your cocaine_?" John shouted the last word out, losing the last bit of control he was holding on to.

Sherlock only closed his eyes and heaved out a sigh, as if the answer to the question was just too stupid to enunciate.

"It was a test." Sherlock said after much eye rolling.

"A test?" John couldn't help but to repeat the word, the pronunciation alien to his own ears.

"Don't worry. You failed," Sherlock offered as an explanation as he stood up and walked back to the god-damn window, delicately rested his stupid violin on his shoulder and started to play a stupid melancholy melody, as though adding to the weight of John's failure. Though what John had failed at, he wasn't quite sure about.

And he wasn't going to think about it either.

_Bloody stupid, moronic, mad, thick, dim-witted, senseless prick!_ John thought as he slammed the door shut on his way out.

 

* * *

 

 

After spending a terrible, restless night on Mike Stamford's couch (He usually preferred Greg's couch, but the D.I. hadn't been home and he didn't have many choices left), John spent the whole day trying to avoid Sherlock or thinking about Sherlock, but the endeavor turned out to be much more difficult than he'd originally thought.

Mike seemed to think of him and Sherlock as a couple. There was just no point in him trying to persuade Mike otherwise. The man was quite unyielding in his convictions, and he believed that John's anger just proved how much he cared for Sherlock.

"I get angry at my wife all the time, too, you know, but deep down, I know I'll always love her." Mike had said early in the morning as the said wife prepared a very delicious breakfast for them. The comparison was quite rigged. Lisa was nothing like Sherlock. She was nice, sweet and caring; didn't terrorize people on a regular basis; treated guests with respect; didn't play the violin at ungodly hours; didn't leave dangerous chemicals lying around the house; didn't draw things on the wall; didn't make John chase criminals all around London; didn't smoke; didn't do drugs; and certainly didn't confiscate people's private stuff. They weren't in a relationship anyway. Rigged comparison; all rigged.

John spent the rest of the morning with Sarah at the clinic. He didn't officially work there anymore – with his crazy schedule, it was impossible – but he did go there sometimes to help out. It helped him feel _normal_ from time to time which was always a blessing. Sarah didn't have to say anything for John to know what she was thinking. The look she gave him was enough.

_The whole London thinks we're together._

 Everything was so incredibly normal without Sherlock around that John couldn't help but to miss the stupid prick a little bit, which was completely ridiculous because that had been his intention the whole day, and now that he had it, he didn't want it anymore.

He waited the entire afternoon waiting for Sherlock to send him a text but didn't get any– he wasn't waiting for any apologies or anything close to that, but he had hoped a case would turn up. Cases always helped them resolve their issues - John went to Bart's without really knowing why. Molly was there, and talking to him without thinking of Sherlock was an absurd idea simply because she talked about nothing _but_ Sherlock. To be fair, it was the only think they had in common, and John realized begrudgingly that he didn't mind it much. It was always impossible to stay mad at the detective for too long; not because he was cute or irresistible, but because if John wanted to stay mad at him, he had to stay mad until the day he died, and there was just no point in that. Molly told John about the cases Sherlock had solve before he knew him, and John couldn't help but be amazed, delighted and irritated all at the same time. He always had to deal with extreme paradoxical emotions when it came to the mad detective.

He was just out of Bart's when his phone buzzed.

_Come pik me up._

_Citerion._

__Sh_

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sherlock and typos? That was a first. He sighed, irritated all over again. It was around nine. He was tired and hungry; just wanted to go home, cook them a simple meal and pretend nothing had happened. Sherlock, though, always had other ideas.

_Why can't you go yourself?_

__JW_

He knew it was a useless question to ask. There were never straightforward explanations when it came to Sherlock, but John couldn't help it. It must be something interesting for Sherlock to make typos.

_Drunk_

__Sh_

Things kept getting weirder and weirder. As much as Sherlock was fond of cigarettes and drugs, he didn't share the sentiment about any alcoholic drink. Was this some ploy to attract his attention? Or was it another test?

_Get a cab._

__JW_

He'd be an idiot to walk right into another one of Sherlock's traps. John waited for five minutes but there was no reply which meant only one thing: Sherlock was going to wait for him until he showed up.

John was half-tempted to ignore Sherlock and go home. That'd certainly teach him a lesson, but damn it! Sherlock knew how to play, and he did it well. John was already intrigued. Why was he at the criterion? Why was he drunk? John was itching to find out.

_Fuck it._

Criterion wasn't far away from Bart's and John decided to take a walk. Some waiting would do Sherlock good, and it would give John some time to puzzle out what was going on.

London was at its coldest and small snowflakes were falling down, illuminated under the city lights. John rubbed his hands together to warm them up. He stopped short in his tracks as he spotted his tall friend outside the restaurant's door, resting his head on the wall like a lost soul. Was he really _that_ drunk?

John walked closer and, sure, Sherlock looked dead drunk. He hadn't even noticed John, his eyes down, his mouth hanging slightly open and giggling every now and then. His scarf and gloves were missing and his nose and cheeks had turned red from the cold. John didn't want to admit it; he really didn't, but Sherlock looked almost . . . cute.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's head turned up at the sound and he grinned like an idiot.

"John!" He slurred and raised a hand to grab his coat sleeve, trying to bring him down. John resisted and tried to make the man stand up instead which turned out to be quite difficult. Despite being thin, Sherlock _was_ heavy and it took some extra effort to keep him upright and get a cab at the same time.

"Come on. Let's get you home." John pushed Sherlock into the cab, went in after him and gave the cabbie the address. Beside stopping the cab two times so Sherlock could throw up out the window, it was quite an interesting ride. John tried to hide his smile as Sherlock talked a mixture of English, French and Spanish – John had no idea Sherlock could talk Spanish – and pointed at imaginary things on the road. It wasn't the first time John was seeing him so unhinged - Sherlock had pretty much the same after the Woman had shot him - but it had been different then. The whole police took advantage of that situation, taking films and photos as if Sherlock was some celebrity, but this time felt more . . . private, and therefore, much more enjoyable.

John shook his head as he helped Sherlock out the car, paid the cabbie with the taller man draped all over him, and tried to take him upstairs as quietly as he could. Mrs. Hudson was most probably asleep at this hour, but they made quite a scene going up, bumping into each other, hitting the wall and missing steps as they tried to reach the door. As John finally managed to unlock the door and get them both in, they were both breathless from exertion and laughter and John had mostly forgotten he'd been angry at Sherlock the day before.

Sherlock curled up on the sofa without taking his coat off and John went to get him a glass of water. When he came back to the sitting room, Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, his precious coat discarded at some corner.

"What are you doing up? Sit down before you fall down and hit your head somewhere. We don't want you to have brain damage. Do we?"

It didn't seem like Sherlock had heard what he'd said. Or at least the words didn't register. He stumbled a few steps forward towards John, and John rushed forward to catch him. The glass tilted and water dripped on Sherlock's pants.

"Damn it." John stretched his hand and put the glass on the coffee table with great difficulty. He tried to move Sherlock back to the couch, but Sherlock stood firm.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you need to sit down."

"John." Sherlock said as he tried to stand straight, his hands tightly gripping John's shoulder's. John stood frozen, wondering what Sherlock was going to say. There was a look in his eyes that seemed to speak of . . . trouble.

"John," Sherlock repeated his name, as though John was supposed to figure everything out by it, but John wasn't Sherlock, and all he could do was wait for Sherlock to say more.

But Sherlock didn't say anything. Instead, he leaned down until they were face to face, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck and smelling of wine. John's eyes widened a bit, anticipating what was going to happen next. Was he guessing right? Was Sherlock . . . no, of course not. Why in hell would Sherlock want to ki –

_Oh._

Sherlock did kiss him. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to John's in a very drunk kiss. John stood paralyzed for a few seconds, eyes wide open, honestly not knowing what to think or act as Sherlock clumsily moved his lips and the tip of his tongue against John's lips, and that was when John realized:

No taste of alcohol.

_Fuck._

John pushed Sherlock backwards forcefully. Sherlock stumbled back a few steps and grabbed the table to cushion his fall, clearly still trying to act drunk.

"Stop the acting. Just _stop_ it." John almost shouted, his words hoarse for no good reason; his lips still tingling.

The transformation was . . . magnificent. Sherlock stood up; his back straight as he stared John in the eye with no trace of remorse, surprise or shame. If anything, he almost looked amused. Of course John had seen Sherlock act; loads of times, but it had always been for a case, for some client. This time, the acting was much more personal and hurt on levels John didn't know he was capable of feeling.

_Why Sherlock? Why?_

"Why?" John asked between gritted teeth, trying very hard to stay still and not do anything stupid.

"I'm not sure you want to know." Sherlock said languidly, the amused smile still on his lips

"That's never stopped you before."

Sherlock, the bastard, actually chuckled and looked at John with a glint in his eyes. Either he'd missed the anger and disbelief on John's face or he didn't care.

"Fine, take a seat." Sherlock said as he threw himself down on the chair.

"I don't want to sit down." John replied, suddenly remembering his first encounter with Mycroft. Damn the Holmes brothers.

"Was this another one of your tests?" John asked as he moved to stand in front of Sherlock, towering over him for once. He almost felt . . . humiliated. Sherlock's tests were something he was quite used to, but they had never been this personal, as thought there was an unspoken agreement between them to leave each other's emotions alone.

An agreement Sherlock had broken tonight.

"I had to make sure." Sherlock finally offered as an explanation.

"Sherlock," John said slowly, "I don't want cryptic remarks and eye rolls tonight. _Explain."_ John had to know. He had to know what Sherlock was doing with their lives.

"Fine." Sherlock said as he stood up and walked to the other side of the room. John recognized the look on his face. He's seen it plenty enough, especially when he had observed things others hadn't and wanted to dazzle everybody within the two-mile radius with his genius, and John knew, he just knew he was going to hear some ugly truths that he most probably wasn't ready to hear. Sherlock was probably going to give him some bullet-proof evidence that John was gay after all.

"I had to make sure my speculations were true."

"Your speculations?" John asked slowly, trying not to aggravate him. There was a high chance Sherlock would give up on explaining. It had happened more often than not.

"That you're in love with me."

John only blinked in response. Of all the things he'd expected to hear, this wasn't one of them. Then again, everything was unexpected when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

"Come on, John! Even you must have seen it by now!" Sherlock had that face again. The face he showed whenever he was dealing with _idiots._

"No, not really."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You might as well accept it now before I pile fact upon fact for you against your reasoning that you're _straight_ and you don't love me _that way._ "

"I must insist." John felt numb, detached from his body. He almost didn't believe they were having this conversation.

"I've known it for a long time, obviously, but it was before The Woman's case. She _told_ you, and now things have changed."

"What? You're afraid I might profess my undying love for you? Or jump you? John couldn't help but ask, his face blank.

Sherlock had the audacity to laugh.

"On the contrary, you're going to go out of your way to prove yourself otherwise."

John just looked at John. Sherlock sighed, irritated.

"Surely, you've seen it by now!" Sherlock's voice was turning to that irritated tone he always acquired when people didn't observe what he did.

"Sarah, Jess, Mary. Sweet, nice, boring. Nothing at all like me. All so angelic. All so incredibly boring. All so feminine. How could you possibly love me if you're in love with _them?_ You're a man. You're _oh so_ masculine. Look at the girls hanging on your arm. They certainly are no threat to your self-image as a soldier. A _man_." Sherlock paused to assess John's reaction. John didn't show anything.

"These beliefs are stupid and middle-class, of course, but it's too idiotic for you to try so hard with them and fail." _Because they're not me_ was left unsaid. What was interesting, however, was the look on Sherlock's face. He almost looked . . . hurt. Well, as hurt as Sherlock Holmes could look.

John stayed still, half wanting to run out of the room before things went out of control, half curious to hear the rest of Sherlock's _reasoning._ He was feeling hot all over; partly because he still had his coat on, partly because the words were getting under his skin in a way he hadn't anticipated.

"Come on, we're practically in a relationship already. Everybody else sees it except you. I'm fine with things the way they are. You're fine with things they are. Well, you _were_ until the Woman's case. Now you won't _stop_ thinking about it. You're just so afraid you might be gay after all , at least unconsciously, that you're going out of your way to prove the world otherwise. Frankly, it's tiring to watch and a waste of your time."

John stayed silent for a long time, having no idea what to say to anything Sherlock was saying. Was he saying what John thought he was saying? And if the answer was yes, how was John was going to deal with it?

"You want to start a relationship." John said carefully, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. Well, at least this was familiar territory.

"You commonplace people with your commonplace needs and commonplace definitions of everything! I know exactly what I want and I have it, but not you, no. You can't walk on grey areas. It all has to be black and white. Gay or straight. Single or married. You _can't_ take uncertainty. It'll drive you crazy. I can see it in your eyes. I can hear it in your voice. You don't know what's happening. You're not sure if you want to love me. You won't accept not knowing, and you'll leave and marry some boring girl just to be certain what you're doing." _And I don't want that._ John was absolutely certain Sherlock was going to say it, but he didn't.

"Oh. So you're trying to be gracious and help me out by having a relationship that's close to _my_ definition of a relationship." John was almost sure this was what Sherlock was trying to say.

"To a point." Sherlock finally broke the eye contact they were holding the entire time. He almost looked . . . hesitant.

"That's why I kissed you. I had to make sure."

"Of what?" John's breath hitched in his throat, and he wasn't exactly sure why.

"Two reasons. One to see if you reacted, which you did, and two to see if I could," Sherlock faltered for one tiny moment before resuming his rapid fire. "To see if I could find it stimulating."

John knew he'd be damned for eternity for asking, but he did anyway. "And?"

"I didn't. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to. I've known for a long time. I actually find it to be a relief not to be sexually stimulated by anything. If I could get rid of eating and sleeping, I most certainly would. Oh, don't look like that. It's nothing personal."

"I'm not looking like anything."

"Of course not."

"Sherlock," John said after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. "You want us to have a relationship when you're asexual and I'm not gay?"

'You're certainly not completely straight either. I hate limited definitions. I suggest you stop trying to define yourselves by them. It's degrading."

"You think I love you so much that I only want to have sex with you." John couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Of course not! Don't be preposterous. But you're quite adamant in your convictions. If you think there should be sex in a relationship, you'll try to have it. You certainly don't dislike it either. If your elevated pulse and flushed face were anything to go by. I think you're still too uncomfortable with the idea."

"You can't have sex anyway. What difference would it make?"

"You can't ignore your basic urges. The relationship would end before it begins."

"You want an . . . open relationship?" This conversation kept getting more and more unbelievable. Sherlock's matter – of  fact face wasn't helping the matters at all.

"I wouldn't mind, but you, with your strong moral principle certainly would. It would end in drastic results. That's certainly not any of us want."

"What are you suggesting, Sherlock? I'm out of my depth here." John really, really was.

"I can . . . compromise." Sherlock finally said. " You know I'm a fantastic actor." And he had the audacity to smile.

John stayed silent for a few moments before walking to Sherlock and punching him in the face. He didn't wait to see the result, just managed to stride out of the room, slam the door, run down the stairs and walk into the open air to _breathe._

**To Be Continued . . .**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
